Blogs by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage
Inside Herod's Throne Room....
8/14/2008 11:38:32 PM
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Herod’s compound’s a converted steel refinery dating originally to the industrial revolution. It has been deserted forever before the vampire mayor took it over from the city, buying the entire complex and grounds for a dollar. Unlike Pilate, Herod didn’t have any hidden lairs. His crazed ego didn’t think he needed them. Herod had cops for his business needs and ex-cops for personal security. The compound was a fortress. Herod these days, rarely ventured from its safety and comfort.
The upper two floors were nothing but mammoth industrial machinery rusting to oblivion. Like the grounds outside, the interior was heavily patrolled by security. The main basement held living quarters for Herod’s men and his security force.
The Mayor’s personal chambers were two levels underground in the sub-basement. Seventeen thousand square feet, split into a dozen rooms and areas. One was Herod’s Throne Room. It was his favorite. Herod enjoyed doing very bad things in there.
In the Throne Room Herod’s brother, Philip, was chained to a cross. The cross secured to a soot-blackened brick wall. The vampire was sobbing and begging for his life. Both shoulders dislocated from the weight of his hanging body. Breathing ragged, a crown of thorns dug pits in temples, scalp, and the tips of his ears. Blood ran rivulets into his eyes. A knife stuck in his chest wall, lodged between ribs and deep in the right lung. The punctured lung collapsed. Excessive air pressure seeped out of the torn lung and compressed the heart, crushing it. Electrified clamps pinched his testicles.
Herod kept his brother from feeding for a week. The vampire was aching, crazed with hunger. Philip hyperventilated through one lung, coughed tissue from it. His eyes were wild and insane.
A huge bullmastiff sat quivering, licking his great chops, hoping for scraps.
Herod’s brother was dying fast. He’d been hanging for three days.
“No more!” Philip cried. “Herod, please, I swear – “
“One hundred joules,” Herod replied. Ovid, a big, albino motherf***er with bright orange cornrows, and more tattoos than a circus geek, upped the juice.
Philip cracked a tooth when the electricity hit. Fangs made a ragged mess of the soft flesh of his mouth. Little puffs of smoke curled acrid from his groin. His shoulders rubbed bone on bone as the poor f*** thrashed away.
“Stop,” Herod told Ovid. He stopped the flow. Herod looked impassively at Philip from his throne. The thing weighed several hundred pounds. The solid oak was gilded with gold and platinum curly-cues. The back’s six feet tall. Four clawed feet gripped gold spheres the size of grapefruit. Placed against the inside wall in the very center on a three-stepped dais. It afforded a nice view to a kill.
Philip hung on the opposite wall, above an opaque expanse of plastic sheeting. Blood, urine, all manner of foul secretions were present. Fluids sat in mini-ponds between plastic folds.
“Please, Herod,” Philip cried; flesh, blood and tooth fragments launching. “I would never stab you in the back, you gotta believe me!”
“Never,” Herod replied, “you sure about that?”
“I swear, brother, please!” he cried out.
Herod was silent a moment. Ovid stood nearby and ready. The dog growled impatiently.
Philip’s ragged breathing and Salome’s slurping ministrations were the only sounds in the cavernous Throne Room. Salome’s head bobbing to the rhythm of Herod’s fist wrapped around a big chunk of her hair. Herod looked from his brother on the cross to the young woman sucking his cock.
“Salome,” he said and pulled her mouth off him. He tugged roughly her hair. Her eyes focused, but just a bit. Plata making such sweet love to her, she did not want to come back. Salome forgot herself and grabbed the hand gripping her hair. Herod responded to her insolence by slapping her pretty face hard. She instantly dropped her hand.
“That’s my good girl,” he told her with an eye-rattling shake, got her attention. “Now, you stupid little bitch, tell me what your father here has said.”
Salome’s head would have fallen, if not held so firmly. She blinked and mumbled something, trying to go inside herself. Herod hit his niece again.
“Okay, f***,” she said, “okay.”
“What did my brother say about me?” he repeated. “Tell it to the both of us.”
“He said he’s going to place himself upon your throne. Use your dead body as his footstool.”
“What else?” Herod demanded. His face darkened, spittle spraying. “What else did he say, you f***ing cur?”
She braced for another blow. “He claimed his powers would dwarf yours,” Salome answered. “He promised to make me his queen.”
Herod stood. “You see?” he shouted and stepped down from the throne. Herod knocked Salome out of his way. “You see?” he repeated, spitting saliva as he went. His robe opened, penis protruding.
A straight razor from a robe pocket and Herod began slicing Philip’s torso, abdomen. His brother cried out, the pain a mountain. Again, Philip begged. Herod’s slashing became more concentrated and severe, mercy not forthcoming. An aerosol of dying blood sprayed Herod. He did not seem to notice.
As quickly as the tirade began, it ended. He surveyed damage. Leaned forward, ran an exploring tongue over the cuts. Herod lapped the bleeding wounds.
“Forgive me,” Philip begged. Herod licked the cuts.
“You know you did this to yourself, Philip,” he replied. Herod quit Philip’s leaking knife cuts, looked into his wild eyes. “Sorry brother, but I gotta say no. There’s no way around it, you’re gonna die.” Philip dropped his head in defeat, moaning in shameful pain.
Herod went to his throne. Philip’s adopted daughter resumed dancing for him. Her father’s agony sound-tracking the event. Herod rubbed her bare back.
“Don’t worry about Salome,” he told his brother. “Uncle Herod will take good care of her.”
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